While most teenagers turned to Nirvana or Metallica, Prema Maja Rode’s “Om Namah Shivaya” chant CD, which I used to play on repeat while working at my local yoga studio, was the soundtrack to my questioning adolescent years. In high school, my yoga instructors were my mentors and my fellow practitioners my friends. It was Jill, my Vinyasa instructor, who sat with me, holding my hand, as I opened my admission e-mail to Columbia. It was Rebecca, my Anusara instructor, who taught me heart-opening or “opening to grace” poses every Thursday night during the summer of my first heartbreak.
